


Some Like It Black

by Unknown



Series: Starting From Scratch [1]
Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, and spoilers, for Skyfall, i don't know what happened, i hope you like misunderstandings?, i wrote it in my head is the problem, that's the problem, then i typed it out, this was supposed to be a coffee shop AU, um, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 11:53:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unknown/pseuds/Unknown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond finds a man he's met in a coffee shop fascinating.<br/>On the other hand, he is in hate with his new Quartermaster.<br/>Interesting, that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Like It Black

**Author's Note:**

> This is gonna be a three part series. It's small. And slightly fluffy, I hope. A bit of the angst here and there, but not that much. I've just been introduced to the 00Q fandom and I am in love with it, so I hope i do them some kind of justice. 
> 
> This is dedicated to my Pooh Bear teddy, the one that I talk to about all of my ideas and if he was real, he would have become homicidal Pooh and murdered me by now for all the gay porn I make him listen to me brainstorm out loud.

He’s late and M is going to have his head. Not that he feels very threatened, but James Bond would rather not have his boss pissed with him so soon after coming back from the dead, thanks. As it is, it’s not even _his_ fault. There’s a man causing a fuss over his Earl Grey tea and how there’s not enough milk in it, or it’s the wrong temperature or some such other rubbish as that.

Bond just wants his fucking coffee.

Another five minutes goes by and the man gets his tea back. This time it seems he’s satisfied. He finally pays, and walks off. Bond would have throttled him in a dark alleyway had he not seen the man’s face. Dark curling hair spilling to his shoulders, chocolate brown eyes behind sweet wire frames. A long pale neck and long pale hands. Bond is comfortable enough with his own sexuality to admit that he’d bloody handsome for a nerd, his sweater vest on snugly over a button down tucked into fresh-pressed, straight-legged khakis.

He wouldn’t mind having his mouth all over that. Especially with those collarbones.

Bond makes eye contact with the man as he walks past him. The man frowns a bit at his bright smile, but nods back all the same. Bond counts that as a win. He walks up to the counter and sends his grin toward the harassed looking barista.

“Just a black coffee, thanks.”

The barista gives him a relieved smile. “I think I can do that.”

* * *

He’s late.

But then, Bond knew he would be. M isn’t happy, just as he’d thought, but as he said before, he doesn’t feel very threatened by her. At least, not right now. She just gives him a nasty looks and makes him sit in front of that blasted, tacky English Bulldog with the Union Jack on its back and he knows she’d gotten revenge.

It’s a horrible punishment, as far as punishments go.

“First you’re late, and then the Quartermaster,” she says, tsking, shuffling papers around. Bond makes a face. That doesn’t sound right.

“Good old Boothroyd is never late,” Bond says, just to get a snarky stab at her. The look on M’s face is not what he was expecting. It’s a mix of irritation and sadness, and something heavy sets in his stomach.

“He’s dead,” she says bluntly, raising an eyebrow. “See the things you miss when you _play_ at dead?” Bond swallows the odd lump in his throat and doesn’t respond. M looks back to a paper on her desk. “You have a new Quartermaster. Get in touch with him. See what he has for you on your next mission. Dismissed.”

Bond leaves her office and takes a minute to lean against her door once he’s outside. He sends out a little prayer to someone for Boothroyd and then goes down to Q-branch in search of his new Quartermaster. It doesn’t take him long to find out from one of the underlings that he’s busy and his best shot is to send an e-mail.

Bond finds an open computer in an abandoned cubicle, sits down and opens up a send box. Using the e-mail one of the underlings gave him, he sends the Quartermaster a message, asking if he has anything new, introducing himself with his usual flair. He hopes it communicates through e-mail. He tried pretty hard at this.

He’s about the walk away from the computer when there’s a beep. He sits back down just to find that there’s a message for him from the Quartermaster. So much for the man being busy. Bond reads through the e-mail, giving an indignant snort at its contents:

                _Agent 007,_

 _When I told my assistant I was busy, I meant that I was_ busy _, even too busy to deal with you. I understand that you are under direct orders from M, but please. Listen when I actually say something or else you and I will never actually get along. Until then, I do not ‘have anything for you’. Might I remind you that I am not a machine that turns out gadgets at your every whim and whistle. Patience is a virtue that you do not have._

_~Q_

Bond doesn’t even answer back. He just shuts himself out of the computer and goes back to M’s office. His next mission is in a few days anyway, he has nothing better to do.

“What now?”

“So you hired a prat to be the new Quartermaster?” Bond says, leaning against her doorframe.

“Oh posh. You don’t even have to meet the man. Just deal with him buzzing in your ear on missions. Even then, he might not even deal with you directly. He’d bloody smart and good at his job. Maybe if you’d been around you’d have had a say in who we hired,” she snarks. God, is that what he sounds like when he does it? He always knew he got it from her.

“Good. I don’t have time for his type,” Bond says. He leaves after that, intent on never having to meet the man behind the blasted, insulting e-mail. It’s only later on when he’s in the gym, trying to work out the kinks in his shoulder that he realizes no one’s been able to get under his skin like this mystery man in a long time.

* * *

He’s at the coffee shop again. It’s been two weeks. For security reasons, Bond doesn’t go to the same coffee shop twice in a week, but now that he’s back at this one, he notices that the beautiful man is there again. If he’s being honest with himself, the man’s been there every day. Bond usually makes sure that he at least passes the shop on his way to another one or MI-6.

He’s sitting at a table in the back, next to the counter this time. Bond orders his coffee and stares at the man, typing away at his laptop, sipping his tea. He bets it’s earl grey again, this time made exactly to his specifications. Bond wonders if he has a sensitive pallet, if it extends past his drinks and food and maybe into his taste of men. Or women, but Bond knows how to spot them, and he’s sure he’s spotted him.

Bond doesn’t consciously make up his mind to go over to the mystery man’s table. He just sidles up and then sits down, admitting the man looks up that that was his intention all along. Seeing those eyes from a distance and having them trained on him are two entirely different things, and James Bond actually catches his breath at the sight. That’s new. He’s a trained assassin, has killed so many people that he’s lost count and this one innocent civilian man has made him catch his breath a bit. Interesting. James likes things that interest him.

“Excuse me,” the man says, a small wrinkle forming between his brows. Bond gets the crazy urge to reach over and smooth it out.

“Yes, you’re excused,” Bond says, smiling as he takes another sip of his coffee. The man frowns. “Oh come now, don’t mar that face of yours.” The man’s face turns an adorable shade of red as the blood rushes to his cheeks. “Not used to flirting?”  he asks, actually curious.

“Not used to compliments,” the younger man returns. He clears his throat, pushes up his glasses and retrains his gaze on Bond. “I’m sorry, but have we met?”

“Briefly. A week ago I was in line behind you,” Bond says. Even now he’d be able to describe just what he was wearing, the time and the look on the barista’s face.

“Ah,” he says. He types something on his laptop and frowns. Then he taps a few keys and smiles. It’s blinding. He looks so proud of himself and Bond finds himself smiling as well; it’s infectious. When he looks back up, remnants of the smile on his face, he appraises him. Then he holds out a hand. “Aaron,” he says.

Bond takes his hand and says, “James.” He gives it a brief squeeze then let’s go. Smooth, soft yet strong hands. He can imagine so many things with those hands. If he were a different kind of man, he’d be blushing. As it is, his smile grows wider. “What are you typing up? A novel?”

“I’m afraid nothing as exciting as that,” Aaron says. He shrugs. “I work from home today. I’ve been putting too many hours in at work it seems. My boss curbed me for the day.”

“What is it that you do?”

“Information tech for Parliament,” he says smoothly. If Bond didn’t know better, he’d say it was almost rehearsed. But he shakes his head. He’d just met this Aaron. He wanted to know him better before he passed judgment. “You?”

“Minor government agent. Nothing interesting,” he says, very blasé about it. No need to get Aaron in any kind of danger because of his chosen profession. “There a Mrs. Aaron running about?” he asks slyly, his foot nudging Aaron’s underneath the table.

Aaron lets out a laugh, pushing his glasses up his nose again. “No. Nor a Mr. Aaron, if that was you’re next question.” He fiddles with the buttons on the cuff of his green button-down. It brings out his eyes, really. “You?”

“Neither a nor b.” Bond smiles. “I do have a feisty mother though,” he says, thinking of M. “Fortunately, you won’t ever have to meet her.”

“Who said I wanted to meet anyone with you?” Aaron says, looking back at his computer.

Bond stares at him in shock. He seemed interested seconds ago. It strikes him as odd that this one man is seemingly unaffected by his boyish charm. Something like excitement sparks in his chest at the thought that he might have to work for this one.

“Oh no one, don’t worry. Nothing until you’re ready,” he says, winking. Aaron snorts into his cup of tea. Bond frowns. “What?”

“You look ridiculous doing that, you know that, correct?” Aaron says, putting his tea down. He raises an eyebrow and turns back to his computer. In retaliation, Bond kicks his shin, lightly though. Aaron lets out a squawk that has the barista glaring at him and several customers making faces. He glares at Bond for a moment pressing the toe of his shoe into the sensitive part of Bond’s knee. He let out a squeak at it before Aaron let go and grins.

This is war.

“You started this with the wrong person,” Bond says, a smile on his face.

Aaron looks indignant. “I sincerely doubt that.”

“Oh? Let’s see who can throw a toothpick at the barista’s nametag,” Bond says, snagging a toothpick from the holder on their table. He snags a rubber band from a stack of Aaron’s papers and fashions a little catapult for his fingers out of it. “If I win, you go out on a date with me Friday night. If I lose, I leave you alone forever.”

Aaron appraises him before he nods. “Fine then. I go first.” He wiggles his fingers at the rubber band and toothpick and Bond hands them over. Aaron takes a moment to make his own little catapult and takes aim at the barista. When he releases the toothpick it hits the barista in the neck. She rubs at her neck absentmindedly where the toothpick pricked her. Aaron shrugs and hands the band over to Bond. He snags another toothpick, sets himself up and aims. In less than a second, the toothpick is sticking out of the nametag, right on the center of the A. Bond looks at Aaron who’s staring in admiration. “Well then,” he says.

Bond smiles, standing up and draining the dregs of his coffee. “Seven o’clock. Friday. I’ll meet you here.”

“This doesn’t mean I’m impressed,” Aaron says, folding his arms across his chest. There’s a smile playing on the corner of his lips.

“Of course not, love,” Bond says. He trashes his cup and walks out after that, an overwhelming feeling of satisfaction filling him as he made his way to MI-6 head quarters. M doesn’t even ask. She hands him his assignment and sends him off. It’s short, will only take a few days and he’s sure he’ll be back on Friday in time for his date.

All in all, not bad for a Monday.

* * *

The date goes well. At least, in Bond’s opinion. Aaron laughs and smiles and is more comfortable with Bond’s touching. He’s a very tactile man; what can he say? He’s left feeling happily buzzed as he goes in late on Friday night/Saturday morning to fill out some paper work M wants in by Sunday. Mind as well get it done now.

It’s not until he’s in his office that he notices the black box on his desk. It’s small and sturdy. Inside is a gun and a radio. While Bond isn’t impressed by any means, it helps a bit to read the sticky note attached to the inside. The gun is, apparently, coded to his palm-print and thus will only fire if he is wielding it. The radio will broadcast his location when he turns it on. Water-proof, of course. Flame resistant as well. The note is signed Q, but Bond is willing to bet one of the underlings delivered it. The gall of the man, to send someone else when it’s his damn responsibility to handle things like this, especially with double-oh agents.

Bond grinds his teeth, tries to think of his good night before he bites someone’s head off for no reason other than that he’s ticked. A knock on his door snaps him out of it and he slams the box closed as Bill Tanner walks in. He nods and rubs his eyes, dropping into his chair.

“Tanner.”

“007,” he returns. “Late night?”

At this Bond smiles. “In a good way.”

Bill’s eye roll is not what he expects. The impish smile isn’t either. “Another conquest then?” he asks, good naturedly. For a minute Bond wants to force him to take it back, because Aaron isn’t a conquest, he’s a person that James seems to get along with very well, but then he bites his tongue because hasn’t he been treating him like a conquest? He feels a bit bad about it actually, wonders if he’s ready for that kind of change. “Or,” Tanner says uncertainly. “Has James Bond finally started to settle down?”

After a moment of silence, Bond says, uncertain himself, “Maybe.” Then he takes the paperwork Tanner has for him and gets to it, drowning himself in reports that M will read over one and file for the rest of their short paper life.

He gets back to his flat late, or early depending on how you see it. Bond sleeps for the entire day, getting up only to eat and relieve himself. Maybe he has some thinking to do. Maybe he’s over-thinking it.

Maybe he’s not.

* * *

Bond wipes a smudge of foam off Aaron’s mouth, his thumb brushing at the corner of his lips. Aaron ducks his head in embarrassment, then peeks up from under his lashes and smiles. Bond’s chest constricts a bit at that, and he sends back a grin of his own.

“So I was thinking,” he says slowly, because he’s got a plan now. It’s been two months. Between a handful of dates out and a few just in the coffee shop, Bond has decided he has to make up his mind. Even he doesn’t believe in stringing people along, and to do that to Aaron would be worse than killing someone, in his opinion. So he’s sorted out his mind. Only last month he’d been determined to see whether this was a fling or something else. He’d slept with some random woman on a mission and had ended up leaving the second the both of them were finished. He’d almost stayed away from Aaron for a week out of guilt. If the other man hadn’t been so damn persistent in his calls, he would have stayed away. Bond hadn’t felt guilt like that since his first kill. He needed to make up his mind.

“Never a good thing,” Aaron says with a smirk. Bond pinches his cheek, his hands still near Aaron’s face. Then he takes his hand.

“You’ve never shown me your flat,” he says. It’s late, they’re sitting around in a restaurant finishing up dessert and this doesn’t have to go anywhere if Aaron doesn’t want it to. Bond wants it to; has wanted it to for a long while.

To his surprise, Aaron snorts. “If that was your way of being subtle, I’d hate to see you as a secret agent. You’d get caught in a second James.” It’s a joke, Bond knows, because Aaron is just a techie geek, he could never know, but it still makes his nerves shoot up. Aaron rolls his eyes though. “Yes, we can go back to my flat, your idiot majesty.”

At that, Bond has to laugh. “If you’re treating me as royalty shouldn’t you be respectful?” He takes out his wallet to pay and Aaron grabs his hand, stopping him. He pays instead and slides out of his seat.

“Only if I respected you,” Aaron says with a smile, walking past Bond and winking.

“You know you look ridiculous when you do that, correct?” Bond says swallowing hard and getting out of his seat as well. Aaron doesn’t look ridiculous. He looks sexy and provocative. And sweet, achingly sweet.

“You wish,” he says and that’s it. He’s caught James Bond in his web and Bond is left wondering whether that’s such  a bad thing.

…

Bond doesn’t leave after he fucks Aaron senseless. Instead, he wraps his arms around the other man and pulls him tight to his chest, settling his chin on Aaron’s shoulder. Pressing a kiss to his temple, Bond encourages him to go to sleep.

The next morning, Aaron wakes up in bed alone, a nasty feeling of emptiness in his stomach. That is, until Bond comes out of the kitchen, two mugs in one hand and a plate of breakfast in the other. He’s got a pair of boxers on that are not his and that’s about it as he sits cross-legged on the bed, handing a cup of perfectly brewed Earl Grey tea to Aaron, not one drop spilled on the bed covers.

Aaron looks at him in wonder then fiddles with his mug of tea. “You didn’t leave.”

And he hadn’t. There had been a point in the middle of the night that Bond had understood that if he left, Aaron wouldn’t chase after him. He could get away with it scott-free. Yes, it would probably mess Aaron up, but Bond wouldn’t have to start in on the whole commitment thing. That had been the moment when he had just looked at the man sleeping beside him and had decided that maybe it was time he had something to come home to. And that he wouldn’t mind at all if this was what it was.

So he shrugs, he shrugs and says, “I was hungry.”  Then he takes a fork and starts in on the eggs.

Aaron looks at him in dull surprise before snatching a fork from the plate and battling with him for the bacon. “Don’t you dare eat it all you heathen, “ he says, with a chuckle of relief.

“Not what you were saying last night,” Bond says. He gets a pillow to the face for his troubles.

* * *

James Bond is going to kill his Quatermaster. Not only has he never met the man face to face, but one of his gadgets just exploded on him. And sure, he’s sent his fair share of nasty e-mails and voice mails and messages alike, but this is just the end of his rope. The man is nasty and cruel, and an insensible know-it-all. Bond is not a child though; he’s not going to complain to M.

But, he swears to a God he doesn’t believe in that if he gets ignored by the man one more time, he won’t be held responsible for the damage he causes to Q-branch.

“He doesn’t like you,” an underling tells Bond one day that he’s fuming over another e-mail that’s telling Bond to straighten up his act on the field and listen to whoever’s talking to him. Of course, that’s nicely paraphrasing it. “Thinks you’re a stuck up agent that thinks he’s above everyone else because you have M’s ear. _Sir_ ,” she follows it up quickly with.

He fumes and thinks of Aaron. Because that actually calms him down. Right. Best not to think on that right now.

* * *

And then Silva happens. It’s a whirlwind of a mess. He has to voluntarily message Q and play nice with him over the computer system as he’s tracking the man down. The radio works, and he has to admit the gun is a bit ingenious and saves him from being blasted to death with his own weapon several times. Then there’s the bit where, while Bond is at M’s hearing, Q is stupid enough to let Silva hack them and then he’s rushing M to Skyfall, a place he hasn’t been to since he was a child.

And then she dies. M dies. Right in his arms, she’s dying; no, she’s dead. And all he can think of on the plane trip back is the look on her face as she said she got one thing right. All he can see is the day she found him at the orphanage. All he can hear are her words and the look of pride and love in her eyes as she said them. He’s already cried over her body, but as they land, he feels a lump form in his throat and he wants to scream.

He debriefs with Mallory and then asks for a week of leave. He needs time; for once in his life he can admit that he needs some time to get over this. Mallory grants it. He knows exactly how close the two of them were. He’s barely holding himself together on his way out when an underling taps him on the arm and tells him that Q wants to talk to him. He snaps on her, not meaning to, and tells her that the Quartermaster can shove it up his ass. She’s shocked and he just leaves; he doesn’t have time for a snotty little techie to tell him what he did wrong.

Bond aimlessly wanders London for hours, a security risk if he wasn’t so capable of watching himself. It’s hours until he finally starts heading in a meaningful direction. When he ends up outside of Aaron’s flat, he’s not even surprised. He is surprised when the man opens the door, looking tired and then horrified at the sight of him.

“James?” he says in shock.

“My mother,” Bond says, because that was exactly what M was to him, in the end. The closest thing to a mother he ever had. “My mother is _dead_.” And then he breaks down into a sob.

Aaron’s eyes widen and he instinctively wraps his arms around Bond. There’s a soothing hand rubbing up and down his back, rubbing in circles. There’s a calming voice whispering nonsense in his ear, ushering him inside, but he’s shaking. A huge part of him is dead and he feels so hollow inside. It’s like he’s been killed, and this was the only place he knew to go to. He trusts Aaron with his emotional well-being, he realizes. It’s a scary thought, but he’s too distraught for that right now.

He spends the rest of the night with his head on Aaron’s lap, the both of them curled up on his bed, the telly playing in the background for some white noise. Aaron runs his fingers through Bond’s hair. He’s stopped apologizing for something he’s not responsible for and instead has moved onto mumbling things like, “Shh,” and “Breathe, James,” and “My god, you’re getting snot all over my jumper,” hoping to get a laugh out of him, which it does.

And then he says, “How are you feeling?”

And Bond answers, “Hollow.”

Aaron nods and rubs at Bond’s temples. “I wish I could help,” he says and he sounds helpless. It makes Bond feel worse. Aaron should not feel helpless because of him.

So he says, “You are,” because it’s true. He’d have gone into self-destruct mode if Aaron hadn’t been there to come to. “Thank you.”

“It’s what I’m here for, _you_ _imbecile_ ,” he says jokingly. “Don’t forget that.” The last part is more serious. More desperate.

“I won’t,” he says honestly. He tucks the information into the back of his mind, associates this feeling of safety with Aaron and holds onto it.

“My boss died today,” Aaron says softly. “I wasn’t that close to her… but…” He shakes his head. “Too much loss in one day,” he says, his voice tight. Bond knows he’s crying, but he does Aaron a favor and doesn’t look up, doesn’t want to embarrass him. Instead, he takes one of his hands and presses it to his mouth. He doesn’t kiss it, just keeps it close to his lips, as a comfort.

Both their breathing slows down to something appropriate, and soon, Bond is asleep in his lap, Aaron asleep against the pillows.

* * *

“So, Mallory is taking over,” Bond says to Moneypenny. She makes a face at him, points to the door.

“Shut it,” she says, swats him with a rolled up piece of paper on the backside. “He’s in with the Quartermaster.”

Bond perks up at that. “Oh? Good. I want to say a few things to that insolent brat.”

“Who, Q?” Eve says in surprise. “He’s sweet.”

“We don’t get along,” Bond says. He shrugs. “It happens.”

“You used to be good friends with Boothroyd,” she says frowning. “What’s so different about him?”

“Besides the fact that he likes pointing out my flaws and being a complete arse?” Bond asks sarcastically.

“It’s not his fault you have so many flaws that need pointing out and a bad attitude,” she says mischieveiouisly. “And anyway, I need you to bring this to Tanner for me, so no fighting with the Quartermaster for today.” She hands him a briefcase and Bond rolls his eyes but takes it.

“This means nothing. I still don’t like him.”

“And I’m sure he hates you too, dear,” Eve says, placating. “Now bring Bill his suitcase.”

“Bill? Since when is he-”

“Just go James!”

* * *

Aaron is ansty. In the seven months that James Bond has been in a relationship with him, he has never seen the other man like this. He puts down the paper he had been reading and tilts his head. Bond had stayed the night, so he was now relaxing with his favorite person for the morning before he headed into MI-6.

“What?”

Aaron snaps out of whatever reverie he’d been in and blushes. “What, what?” He tries to laugh it off. “Where you thinking again? Haven’t I told you that was a bad-” Bond catches his hand where it’s been incessantly tapping at the tabletop.

“What has  gotten into you Aaron?” he asks, a bit worried. This has always been the downsides to Bond getting himself into relationships. Is this the part where Aaron says, ‘It’s me, not you’? Where he decides that James’ weekend ‘work’ trips are too much, that they don’t have enough in common, that the sex isn’t what it used to be, that they just don’t mesh anymore? He swallows hard, trying to control the odd spark of panic and hurt it’s causing him when Aaron looks away quickly and sighs.

“Just do it,” he murmurs under his breath, and Bond barely catches it. “Don’t be a coward.”

“Darling,” Bond says. “Out of all the men, I know you are the least cowardly-”

“Move in with me,” Aaron says, cutting him off, his words quick and rushed together. He flips his hand over in Bond’s and squeezes his fingers tight around the other man’s. He finally looks Bond in the eye. “Move in with me. You’re here most of the time anyway. Most of your clothes are here. You have three suits in the closet, day clothes in the drawers. James, you have _toothbrush_ in my washroom. You bring groceries back to the flat. I-” He stops to run a frustrated hand through his mop of hair. “Move in with me,” he repeats. Then he sits back and looks at Bond with wide eyes.

For a moment, Bond stares at him in surprise. Then he squeezes Aaron’s hand back and sips his coffee, looking back down at that morning’s newspaper to hide the relief on his face. He rubs soothing circles into the back of Aaron’s hand. He’s quiet. And then:

“And here I was thinking you’d killed someone.”

Aaron snorts and tears his hand from Bond’s grip. There’s a smile of relief on his face. “Only you, sir. Only you.” He gets up and goes to make himself a cup of tea. Opening the fridge he frowns. “We need more milk.” The carton he takes out had barely a drop left.

“I’ll pick it up on the way home,” he says absentmindedly, and Aaron just hums in agreement. Bond allows himself a small smile when he’s sure the other many isn’t looking.

Later that day, Bond signs the lease papers with the landlord, making sure Aaron’s not around. No need for him to see his name written out. Now more than ever he doesn’t want to put the other man in danger of knowing who he is.

The only thing left to do now is go to Q-branch and have the Quartermaster change his information around a bit.

Wonderful.

* * *

“Let me guess, your precious Q is busy?” Bond says.

The underling blushes a bit. “I can, um, change your file’s information?” she offers. Bond rolls his eyes and gives her the official documents. It’s over in a few quick minutes. All she was really doing was changing the address of his old flat to the new one. She makes a face. “Why the sudden change?”

“Moved in with someone,” Bond says, not really thinking of it.

“Oh?” she says. “She must be special.” She finalizes the files and saves everything, handing back his papers with a smile.

“ _He is_ ,” Bond says, turning on his heel just quick enough to get a glimpse of the look on her face. He smiles to himself as he walks back and if he kisses Aaron a few times more than usual when he gets home – and my god, he never thought he could have a home with someone in this line of work – then he’s the only one who knows why.

* * *

It’s a little over a year since he’s been with Aaron when the break-in occurs. Bond is plastered to his boyfriend’s back, sleeping the exhaustion of a weekend in Burma away, when he hears the window creak open. As he’s startled into wakefulness, an unfortunate side effect to the necessity of an agent sleeping so lightly, he’s suddenly disgustingly grateful that Aaron keeps forgetting to oil it’s hinges.

Bond keeps a gun in their night stand drawer and in seconds, he’s drawing it, and rolling to the floor. The transition is so smooth and quiet that not even Aaron wakes up. The intruder is completely oblivious to the goings-on. Bond is springing out of his crouch in seconds though. The intruder starts to go through one of their cabinets and he hears Aaron say, “What the bloody-”

The gun connecting with Aaron’s face is all he needs to see for that cold wave of panic to slice through him. Bond is springing up in seconds, pointing his gun at the intruder and letting off two shots. The man falls, sputtering and Aaron stares at him in shock, holding his hand to his face. Bond drops the gun and checks the man’s pulse. He’s still alive, just as Bond had intended; he’d been going for nonlethal. He then rushes over to Aaron, tilting his head up and turning the bedside lamp on. His left eye is starting to bruise and he winces as he probes the mark.

“Are you alright?” he asks softly, licking his lips, swallowing hard. If that idiot had pulled the trigger, accidental or not, at that close a range, pointed at Aaron’s head… Bond shivers, feeling sick to his stomach at the thought of death for the first time in years. Suddenly, there are arms around his wrists and Aaron is speaking, but his words are muted.

“James? James, I’m fine. However, that gentleman is not. We need to call an ambulance. _James_ , snap out of it!” Aaron delivers a swift slap to his face and Bond snaps out of it. He swallows hard and nods, going over to the man to stop the bleeding. Within minutes, an ambulance is there, along with a  few medics. Just flesh wounds, they say, and an officer takes both their statements. Aaron doesn’t seem worried, and Bond isn’t even paying attention. The second they run the name Bond wrote down for them, it’ll go straight to Mallory and he’ll clear them.

They collapse into bed around four in the morning and Bond holds Aaron extremely close to his body, listening to his heartbeat. That relaxes him enough that he can concentrate again. Aaron sleeps that night, but James doesn’t. He needs to ask for a few favors at head quarters tomorrow.

* * *

“I need a favor,” Bond says to the underling who has been dealing with him since the marvelous (said with sarcasm) Q has been pleasantly ignoring him.

She shifts uncomfortably and says, “Depends?”

Bond gives her his most charming smile. “I need you to pull up this address,” he says, handing her the address of his and Aaron’s flat. “I need a security detail on it.” Alright, so call him paranoid. But Aaron has come to mean so much more to him than anyone could know and heaven forbid anything happen to him that James Bond could have prevented.

The underling makes a face and then types at the computer. She looks at the address and types it in, sending request information. A few minutes later she frowns. “Well that’s odd.”

“What is?” he asks, leaning over her from the back of her chair.

“Well back up a bit,” she says irritated. He steps back. “Better.” She gives herself a shake. “Now then, it says here that this address already has a security detail on it.”

Bond rolls his eyes. Probably Mallory’s doing. Or Moneypenny’s. “No, I don’t need it for me. That’s my detail, I need one for-”

“It’s not for _you_ ,” she says, sniffing in his direction. “See?” She clicks on a name and then turns her screen to him and lo and behold. It’s _not_ his security detail. It’s for…

“Who the hell is accessing my personal files?” Bond hears behind him. He knows the voice perfectly. He greets that voice when he goes home, when he goes to bed, when he wakes up in the morning, before he leaves for headquarters.

Aaron.

Bond slowly turns around and there he is, frowning at the underling in the same sweater he left the house in this morning. Aaron always leaves first, unless it’s a weekend that Bond has a ‘work trip’ (a mission). Everything goes a bit fuzzy at the edges because what the hell is Aaron doing at MI-6’s Q-branch?

“Q?”  a woman says. “Quartermaster? I have a few things from Mallory – I mean M that I need you to sign.”  She sighs as she walks up to Aaron who’s actually starting to notice Bond now. “Could you sign these please, Q?”

To Bond’s complete surprise, Aaron looks to her first and says, “Of course.” He signs the papers and then she walks away and he finally catches sight of Bond. “What the hell?” he swears under his breath. “James? What are you-”

“007,” the underling says and in that minute, Bond hates her with all of his being. “Agent Bond are you finished with this?”

“007,” Aaron – no _Q_ says in shock. “You’re… _you’re_ Agent 007. You’re James _Bond_?” He looks livid.

“And you’re the idiot Quartermaster. Q is it?” Bond says. Of course the security was for him. He was the Quartermaster. Something starts to ache behind his breastbone, because shit. What has he done?

“You… you’ve been…” and that’s when Q realizes that everyone is watching them in confusion. He grabs Bond by the arm and drags him into an office – Q’s office – and slams the door shut. “What the bloody fuck is going on? You said you were a minor government agent.”

“And you told me you did information tech for parliament!” Bond yells.

“Lower your voice, agent,” Q says coldly.

“ _Oh no_ , you don’t get to go there, Q,” Bond snarls. His chest has never hurt like this before, like he’s been shot but there’s no bullet. It’s the worst feeling he’s ever felt. His life is espionage and it turns out that the one thing he thought was his was espionage too.

“I never lied to you about my _name_ ,” Q whisper-screams. “Aaron Quincy, my name is _Aaron Quincy_ , but as Quartermaster they call me _Q_. You told me your name was James _Brand_ , not James _Bond_.” And that’s true; the onetime Q had asked, he’d lied to him.

“For your so-called protection!” Bond says. “Can’t you at least understand that?”

“So it’s just been a lie then?” Q says and there’s something hurt and broken in his voice. Bond wants to fix it. They’re both in the wrong, he knows. But he feels as though he’s added a twisted lie to his, and that’s more wrong than what Q’s done. “Get out.”

“Aaron-”

“Don’t,” he says softly. “I may have not told you what I did for a living but I never lied to you about who I was. I should have known something was wrong last night when you…” He touches his face. “It was M then, you’re mother.” Bond is quiet. He’d lied about that too, but he’d had a good reason because she practically was, by everything besides blood. But Q wouldn’t see it that way. “And all the weekend trips… Fuck.” He shakes his head. “I was afraid you were cheating but all this time you’ve been out getting yourself killed!”

“Just listen to me for a minute-”

“No, not right now. I don’t even want to look at you right now. Mallory – fuck, M. Arsehole wants us to call him M now. Shit. M needs you for something in Germany. Go. Get out, I need to think,” Q says harshly, his knees starting to shake. Bond goes forward to steady him but Q flinches. “Please don’t touch me right now.” Bond stops, arm extended, swallows hard. “I hated you,” Q whispers, and Bond’s heart cracks. “I could not stand 007. All the reports I had to file because he killed too many people getting to the perp, because he knocked down a building, stole a car. Because he almost died, _again_.” He laughs weakly. “I tried to avoid you at all costs and all this time I’ve been…”

Bond leaves then. He heads over to the newly minted M and ignores the curious looks the Q-branch underlings are giving him. They don’t know the whole story. He’d rather keep it that way.

M looks at him oddly when he walks in. “Is all well?” he asks, trying to polite.

“I met the Quartermaster,” Bond snaps. M looks at him oddly. Of course he has no idea what he’s talking about.

“Right then. Anything you need to say, Mr. Bond?”

“Have you ever lied to a person, but they’ve lied to you too? And somehow, when you look at it, you realize that you lied a bit more than they did and it makes all the difference?” Bond says, almost too earnest for even himself to handle. “And the person you loved the most turned out to be the person you hated the most?”

M blinks at him and then says, “Agent 007 what the hell are you going on about?”

“Nothing sir,” he says stonily, shaking his head. “What have you got for me?”

* * *

Bond is sent to Russia, not Germany. He finds himself if a spot of trouble (read: he’s probably doomed) and his target has disappeared on him.

“Can’t somebody get me a camera view? Anything?” he says into his mouthpiece. There’s a fluttering of keys in his ear and Bond has no idea who’s with him now. It’s changed a lot over the past few days. He doesn’t much care by now. He wants to go home and… He stops that line of thought. He has no idea what’s waiting for him at the flat.

“He’s not on any camera,” Q’s voice says in his ear and he freezes. Shit. Just what he _didn’t_ want. “And the tracker you put on him has been disabled.”

“That, contrary to popular belief, is _not_ my fault,” he says harshly.

“I’m aware of that, _agent_ ,” Q snaps.

“Knock it off, the both of you,” Moneypenny says in the background. Bond can’t even grin.

“You’re a pain,” Bond says lowly.

“Don’t you start,” Q says back, his voice lowered as well so Eve won’t hear him. “I’m not the one who always-”

“Bond!” Eve yells into his ear and Bond twirls around but he’s too late. He should have ducked not spun and a bullet gets him in the center of the chest. He lets out a wet cough and tries to push back the pain, ignore the wobble in his knees. He draws his pistol and takes aim, but his target shoots him again and he drops his weapon.

“007?” he hears in his ear and suddenly, the pain intensifies. Q’s going to listen to him die. The one person who he doesn’t want to hear is going to be the one to hear him die, intimately. Hear his last breaths and it’s the worst thing Bond can think of.

“Fuck,” he breaths, feeling something puncture in his chest. Something’s filling with fluid. Maybe it’s a lung with blood. Maybe a body cavity with mucus. He’s not sure. Might be the first one, actually since he’s been shot twice. Bond coughs and wiggles on his back as his target steps on his chest and he yells.

“Bond!” Q yells in his ear. “What the hell is going on?”

“Goodbye, James Bond,” he target says, letting another bullet rip through his chest. The metal smashes through his side and he feels bone splinter, blood soak into his shirt, onto the floor, flood something important. Or not. He’s dead soon anyway, what does it matter?

“I think not,” he splutters and shoot the man point blank in the head. He keels over, dead, to the floor beside him. Then Bond relaxes onto the dirty, hard floor and lays there, looking up at the fluorescent lights above his head.

“Bond! Bond are you listening to me? What the hell is going on?” Q is shouting. Then in the background: “I need a medic team over there stat, the closest one we have. I don’t have if we have to borrow the Russians, go!” There’s scrabbling and people getting dispatched. Bond doesn’t care. He’s got a few last words he needs to get out. “Hold on Bond. Talk to me.”

“He’s dead,” Bond finds it necessary to say.

“Oh thank god,” Q says. “That’s-”

“So am I,” he finishes, wheezes, splutters. “Shit,” he says, tasting blood in his mouth, feeling it rise up his throat. He can’t breathe right and it’s easier to pretend he can’t breathe at all. It hurts less.

“ _What_?” Q gasps into his ear. His comm. set is starting to hurt, out of everything. He can’t move to take it out, wouldn’t want to because Q is on the other end. “Bond? Bond!” He doesn’t know what’s going on on the other end. He doesn’t care. “…James?” Q hazards. The first time he’s called Bond that since he found out he was indeed the agent Q couldn’t stand. Bond starts to laugh, blood gurgling in his throat and Q exclaims, “ _James_!”

“God, I _love_ you, Q,” Bond says, a smile on his lips, his teeth stained with blood, chuckles escaping between his lips. He’s delirious and almost dead, what does he have to lose?

He doesn’t know what happens after that. Everything goes dark as he hears someone yelling in his ear.

* * *

“I hate you,” are the first words Bond wakes up to. He’s in Medical, he thinks. The colors match up, he’s seen that nurse before and it smells like a hospital but without that actual hospital tone. He rolls his head to the side to see Q sitting in a plastic chair, looking like he’s been beat up and dragged by a car for a few miles. The bruise around his eyes is a faded yellow. A week then. It’s been a week.

“How long?” he asks on principle, a hand with tubes stuck in it rubbing down his fac.

“A week and a half,” Q says. Then he snaps, “Stop that, you might pull something out.”

“Oh, I do hope so. They’re quite uncomfortable,” Bond responds. It’s tense for a moment before Q gives up with the façade and collapses back into his chair.

“I hate you,” he repeats.

“So you’ve said,” Bond acknowledges. “Also utter bollocks, but I’ll let you have your way.”

“You almost died. No, excuse me, you were medically dead for four minutes and twenty-three seconds. And then by the grace of some kind of God, certainly not one I believe in, they got you back and then you wouldn’t wake up and… and…” He swallows hard, eyes glistening. “I hate you. I hate you because I was mad at you and you went and told me you loved me as you _fucking died_ , James Bond. You don’t _do_ that to a person. You don’t give them _everything_ and then _snatch it_ away from them.” He wipes at his eyes.

Bond starts to laugh. His smile is so wide his lips crack and bleed a bit from the dryness. He laughs so hard that his sides and chest hurt and it turns into a wince. “Fuck,” he swears.

“Of course it’s going to hurt, you daft oaf. You were shot! Why the hell are you even laughing?!” Q says, standing up, checking his machines to make sure he hasn’t done anything to damaging. “Idiot,” he huffs.

“Because you _love_ me,” Bond says, a smile still on his face. It’s true.

Q turns to him and slaps himself in the forehead. “That’s the only thing you got out of all of this, isn’t it?”

Bond shrugs. “Was I supposed to get anything else from it?”

Q collapses into his seat and shakes his head. “Besides the fact that I also fucked up and I’m sorry? No.”

Bond closes his eyes. “We both did.” He feels a hand in his, long, slender fingers that can do wonders to other parts of him wrapping tight around his palm.

“I am sorry.”

“Likewise.”

“Too much of a man to apologize?” Q says, and Bond can hear the smile in his voice.

“No. It’s not my fault you were a complete clot-pole to me at work and a saint when I was home,” Bond responds, smiling himself.

There’s silence and then Q says, “You’re lucky you’re bedridden James Bond. Or else I’d be swatting you to my heart’s content.”

He laughs. “Of course you would, Aaron Quincy. So. Quartermaster. You’re young for a Quartermaster. Smart then?”

“Mmm,” Q says. “And a double-oh agent? The most infamous, at that. Going to be giving me a heart attack a week, then? Perfect. The rest of my life is going to be one hospital visit after another, either to a morgue to make sure it’s not you, or else to a hospital room to yell some sense into you.”

“Now what good would that do?”

“ _None_ ,” Q says. “So a lifetime of wasting my voice.”

Bond is silent, and when he opens his eyes, Q is still right by his bed. He swallows hard and grips his hand back as hard as he can. He clears his throat and wishes he had some water. They’ve said things neither wants to take back. He just needs to be sure.

“Still a lifetime though, correct?” he says, his voice steady as a rock despite the depth of the question he’s asking.

Q knows though. He leans over and presses a soft kiss to Bond’s lips. “Mmm, yes,” he says and gives a small smile. “A lifetime, I wager. If you’ll have me.”

“Of course,” Bond says, a smile of his own on his face. He leans up and presses another kiss to Q’s mouth before leaning back with a wince.

“Don’t you dare push yourself, James,” Q says.

“You’re going to start with the nagging, aren’t you Aaron?” Bond says exasperated.

“ _Nagging?!_ ” Q screeches, making Bond wince.

Oh yeah.  He’s definitely looking forward to this lifetime.  He can only hope his ears will survive it.


End file.
